


Bodies

by AllieHink



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: First Kiss, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-24
Updated: 2012-06-24
Packaged: 2017-11-08 10:31:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,704
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/442246
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AllieHink/pseuds/AllieHink
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In all his years as a doctor, Dr. John H. Watson had seen his fair share of bodies.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bodies

In all his years as a doctor, Dr. John H. Watson had seen his fair share of bodies. At first, it was the cadavers in the morgue during medical school. Then there was the endless parade of patients during his residency at St. Bart’s. After that, there were the bloody and broken bodies of the nameless young men employed by Her Majesty’s Royal Army.

Then John got shot and there was a gap in which he no longer found himself surrounded by bodies. He was instead left stranded with a bum leg and a bullet hole in his left shoulder, and so bored out of his mind that he thought he might make use of the handgun in his desk drawer and simply take to the streets with it just for something to do. 

And then he ran into Mike Stamford, an old friend for med school, and suddenly, by some miracle, he was once again surrounded by bodies, this time in the form of the recently murdered, alongside his mad and brilliant flatmate. There were the shootouts and the adrenaline rushes and the midnight chases through London after a suspect who had committed some crime that John didn’t even understand yet, but it didn’t matter because all he had to do was trail behind the body that was quickly becoming the most important one in his life. 

John found his mind turning to the body of Sherlock Holmes with an alarming frequency. It seemed that John’s thought were always filled with Sherlock’s trim waist or that long, pale neck or those cheekbones, so sharp, John wanted to know if Irene Adler was right, if it was indeed possible to cuts ones self on them. John wanted to run his hands over Sherlock’s smooth expanse of chest, and run his fingers through the inky curls that crowned his head, and press his lips against the perfect cupid’s bow that was formed by Sherlock’s.

It was beginning to interfere with his work. He would drift off into daydreams at the clinic. Ones in which he was allowed to smooth his hands down the small bulges in Sherlock’s arms that marked that he was much stronger than his slight frame suggested. Then a knock at the door would shock him out of his reveries and he would guiltily buzz in the patient that had been waiting for fifteen minutes. Or, while at a crime scene, he would find himself staring at Sherlock’s back as the detective bent over a corpse while imagining running his fingertips down his spine. Letting them trail over the tiny bumps he knew were there after he caught a peek at them that morning as Sherlock made his way from the bathroom to his bedroom clad only in a towel slung low on his hips. It would take Sherlock saying his name three times for John to join the real world once again. Sherlock would give him an odd look and color would rise in John’s cheeks as he joined him by the body to give him the minimal input he could offer.

This happened several times; John would drift off into a fantasy involving some part of Sherlock’s anatomy, and it would take multiple attempts to regain his attention.

After a particularly embarrassing episode at a crime scene in which Lestrade had actually had to elbow John in the ribs to bring him back to the present, John and Sherlock made their way back to Baker Street. Sherlock was unusually quiet during the cab ride home, and had yet to say a word as they made their way up the steps to their flat and through the door where he silently made his way to the sitting room and collapsed into his chair. John made his way to the kitchen to make them some tea, and then followed Sherlock with two steaming mugs.

Sherlock was leaned back in his chair with his eyes closed and his fingers steepled below his chin. John placed Sherlock’s tea on the small table and had just opened his mouth to say something when Sherlock’s eyes flew open and he said, “John.”

John started, but gathered himself quickly and gave an inquisitory “hmm?”

Sherlock settled his piercing gaze on him and said, “Are you alright?”

John furrowed his brow in confusion and turned and settled in his chair across from Sherlock. Sherlock’s blue-green eyes followed his every move. “Of course I’m alright,” he said, “Why wouldn’t I be?”

Sherlock silently gazed at him for a moment. He seemed to be having some sort of internal struggle. There was uncertainty in his beautiful eyes. John was unaccustomed to seeing Sherlock uncertain about anything and it left an uneasy feeling in the pit of his stomach. Finally Sherlock’s lips parted and words began to tumble out.

“You’ve been so distracted lately, at crime scenes and here at home. We’ve hardly said a word to each other in weeks, and for the life of me, I can’t figure out what is bothering you. Are you ill? Are you bored with the cases? You don’t have to come with me anymore if you don’t want to. Have I done something to offend you? If I have done something wrong, please tell me so I can fix this!” he finished a little breathlessly.

John stared at him for a moment, dumbstruck, then launched himself to his feet and quickly crossed the space between his and Sherlock’s chairs. He seized Sherlock’s hand as he knelt by the arm of his chair. John’s heart leapt at the contact. He hadn’t planned on touching Sherlock, but now that he was, he couldn’t seem to let go. He gripped the pale hand tighter and said, “No, Sherlock. I’m fine. You haven’t done anything wrong. Don’t think that. It’s nothing really. Please don’t worry.”

Sherlock’s eyes had widened slightly when John had touched his hand, but he hadn’t pulled away. He relaxed minutely at John’s words and he turned his hand over in John’s grip. His fingertips brushed John’s wrist where his heart still hammered away at his pulse point. Sherlock froze and his eyes widened even further. He stared at John for a moment, icy green eyes meeting deep blue ones.

“Oh. _Oh_ ,” he murmured, eyes never leaving John’s face, though they were no longer frozen, but flying over every feature, cataloguing everything. Slowly, he brought the hand that wasn’t trapped beneath John’s to hover just barely an inch from John’s face.

John’s heart beat faster. He could feel the heat radiating from Sherlock’s fingertips. He wanted so badly to lean forward and close the distance between Sherlock’s skin and his own, but he couldn’t move. He was frozen in place by those infuriatingly beautiful eyes as they once again met his own.

Then Sherlock slowly, excruciatingly slowly, brought his fingers to John’s face and lightly ran them across his cheek. 

If his heart beat any faster, John thought, he was going to have a heart attack. He refocused his attention though. Sherlock’s fingers were still on his face and he didn’t want to miss any of this.

Sherlock was now brushing the backs of his knuckles along the line of John’s jaw as his thumb traced a line across his cheekbone. Slowly, he moved his hand so that the palm cupped the side of John’s face and tips of his long fingers threaded through the short strands of John’s hair. John leaned into the touch and let his eyes fall closed.

When he could open them once again, he found that Sherlock had moved slightly closer. His lips were parted a little and there was a question in his eyes. John wanted to shout, “Yes! Yes! For the love of God, yes, please!”, but all he could do was jerk his chin down in a semblance of a nod.

Sherlock’s lips quirked in a small smile before he leaned forward and finally, _finally_ , John knew what it felt like to have that perfect cupid’s bow pressed against his lips.

Suddenly John was unfrozen from the position he had held for the last several minutes (surely it had been longer than that. John felt as if he had been kneeling in front of Sherlock for hours, days even.) One hand slid around Sherlock and pressed against his back, while the other, the one that had been clenched around Sherlock’s hand, slid up his arm, over the muscles that John could feel through the thin material of this shirt and across his shoulder to rest against the back of his neck, his fingers toying with the soft, dark curls there. He used the leverage gained from this position of his hands to pull Sherlock closer until their chests met over the top of the arm of Sherlock’s chair.

They stayed like that, arms around each other, chests pressed together, and lips moving in perfect harmony, until lack of oxygen made stars dance before John’s eyes. Reluctantly, they broke apart and gazed at each other for a moment, chests heaving and breath mingling.

“I didn’t know you…” John’s voice broke the silence before trailing off.

“Neither did I, until just now.” Sherlock replied.

John huffed a laugh. Confusion flicked across Sherlock’s face and he tried to pull back, but John just held him tighter, preventing his escape.

“What?” Sherlock asked, still trying to decipher John’s laughter.

“We’re both idiots,” John murmured.

Understanding dawned on Sherlock’s face. “Yes, I guess we are,” he said as he smiled and chuckled that deep, rumbling chuckle that John could feel resonating in his chest. They leaned their foreheads together as breaths of laughter mingled and lips lightly brushed against each other again and again.

Somehow they made it to the sofa, and as Sherlock drifted to sleep against John’s chest, he pressed a kiss to the inky curls and pondered this new thing between them. Maybe tonight he hadn’t got to touch every part Sherlock’s body that he had dreamed of, but he knew he would.

Yes, Dr. John H. Watson had seen many bodies during his career. The only difference now was that he most definitely had a favorite. And he could not wait to explore every inch of it.


End file.
